Every so often, I see someone who makes me want to paint their portrait with my pen.
Your hair falls about you in vague, dreamy waves, with varied shades and depths like the whorls in the wood of my desk. Chestnut, mahogany, sepia.
Your sweater has white flecks like bits of glittering snow melting on the knitted maroon fabric, and it makes you look as if you’d be cool to the touch.
Your white knees are faint through the black nylon that stretches and envelopes the slopes and curves of your legs.
And as I glance up at you to add more to my portrait, you look up at me too. Akwardly, I tell you I like your shirt. I tuck my painting away, bashful.
I may not have my camera with me, but I hope you know what a pretty picture you’d make.